


Learning To Live In The World

by zulu



Category: House M.D.
Genre: 08-05, F/F, Female Protagonist, for:ijemanja
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-23
Updated: 2008-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:08:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Ask me whether what I have done is my life. Others have come in their slow way into my thought, and some have tried to help or to hurt: ask me what difference their strongest love or hate has made.</i> -- William Stafford, "Ask Me".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning To Live In The World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ijemanja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijemanja/gifts).



> Written for ijemanja, who took up my [challenge](http://queenzulu.livejournal.com/336103.html); betaed by leiascully and thedeadparrot. This is a tale that grew in the telling.

Remy sits on a wooden bench at the top of a high, solitary hill. It's summer, warm and muggy, the sun sliding into a late afternoon that will drift slowly into a honeyed evening. Remy spreads her hands, as if the air is thick enough to curl like mist over her fingers. She watches them, as she has always watched them, for the first signs of tremors. This time, she watches them knowing the tremors will come. Her hands will betray her. Her body will give up.

Amber sits down beside her, and Remy clenches her hands quickly into fists. Amber smiles her cut-throat smile, the one sharp enough to catch Remy at everything, and laugh at her for losing. It's not a zero-sum game, though, and neither of them won this time.

Remy presses her lips together and turns her head to watch the sunset, the strangely perfect sunset. Amber's wearing a summer dress, a floral print with thin straps over her barely-tanned shoulders. She's too pale to be out in this sun, but Remy knows she won't ever burn and peel; she is rosy-golden across her cheekbones and her lips. The skirt falls above her knees, showing the length of her legs, the shape of her calves, the bright strap of her sandals across her ankles. A woven sun-hat spreads a net of shadow across her face. The breeze ruffles her hair and lifts the brim of the hat, alternately hiding and revealing her eyes.

The dress is nothing like her, but she's beautiful like this, and she seems like a part of the landscape: the park with its mown lawn sloping away in front of them, the sun falling behind a mask of haze.

"It's not your fault," Amber says, like an opening gambit in a chess match she already knows she'll win.

"I never said that," Remy snaps back quickly, and Amber's smile grows fractionally: she's being defensive.

She's always been defensive; there's always been so much to defend against.

"You had to run that test eventually." Amber's watching the sunset, too, and her voice is soft. It was always softer than Remy expected, given how sharp, how pushy she was, when Remy knew her. "I'm glad I helped."

"It wasn't you," Remy says.

"No," Amber says. "But House made it about me, didn't he?"

"House can be wrong," Remy says. She leaves her contemptuous snort unvoiced.

Amber turns sideways, propping one elbow on the back of the bench. She rests her chin on her fist, and pouts almost playfully as she studies Remy. Remy drops her eyes to Amber's knees, to the hem of the skirt lifting and settling, to the milkier skin of Amber's inner thigh.

"Why are you dreaming of me?" Amber asks.

"I'm not," Remy says. "This is just--"

"A dream." Amber pauses, and Remy is surprised to see her swallow, her eyes brighten. Remy never thought that she would see Amber cry over anything except losing. But then, maybe this is the only way that it matters not to win. "You know that I'm dead."

"I'm going to die," Remy says--not to make this about her, but as an acknowledgment. A fact. There will come a time when her body will no longer obey her, when her personality will change, when she won't know herself. She will die.

"Yes," Amber says. "But that's not why I'm here."

"I'm not going to grieve for you," Remy says. "Not even in a dream."

Amber shakes her head and looks away. "It's all right. James will."

Remy remembers the first time she saw Amber after the day she'd walked out of House's game, eyes red and swollen from crying. She'd forgotten Amber, put her out of her mind--and then she'd seen her across the lobby, and her entire body had blushed, the sort of blush that stopped her in her tracks. She hadn't known whether to hide or get closer. She'd compromised, keeping her eyes on the chart she was carrying, ready to trade barbs or greetings or a simple frosty glance that refused to let on that they'd worked together--fought each other--for months. As Remy passed her, though, Wilson emerged from an exam room, and Amber's bored, better-than-this look had lit up. She had an amazing smile when she let anyone see it. And Remy kept going, not looking over her shoulder to see Wilson and Amber fumble through a kiss, a laugh; the clumsy, amazed happiness of people who are new enough to love that it looks foolish to everyone around them.

"You didn't want it to be me," Amber says.

The park has grown darker, cooler, the air soft now like rain. "What do you mean?" Remy asks.

"The patient," Amber says. "Shouldn't have been me."

"Jane Doe number two," Remy says. A frisson of fear had caught in her throat when House said it was Amber he'd seen. The entire bus full of nurses and doctors and orderlies had moved on his words, suddenly impelled into action. Remy stood, frozen, playing the part of the dying woman, the lost woman. The fear wasn't for herself, no matter how hard House demanded parallels and patterns. It wasn't for House, who would live, and it wasn't for Wilson's girlfriend, who Remy had never known. It was Amber she was afraid for, the Amber she had seen fight for House's fellowship, ruthless and desperately put-together, cold and walled off and needy. Amber, who she'd watched all those weeks.

"It's so exciting," Amber says. There's twilight in her eyes. She speaks gently, almost earnestly, and she's leaning closer. "Seeing them when they walk in, knowing you can't say anything, but imagining--what if they talk to you? What if they stand close enough that your arms touch? What if House throws you together and you spend all day with them--always professional, but always, there's a chance that they feel it too, that it's something more..."

Remy shivers. There were nights in the lab when coffee and exhaustion whirled together in her head and made her careless, made her wonder what Amber would say if she said, directly, "Listen, I like you. If you're interested," and leave her heart hanging, completely exposed. Tamping down the silly flutter of nerves and anticipation and the clean, clear certainty that Amber would laugh in her face. But they were never alone long enough, and the night was never late enough or hopeless enough, and while she thinks from Amber's occasional glance that she might have known, neither of them said anything. Remy presses her lips together. "I don't proposition straight girls."

"You don't need to," Amber says, and she's never been kind, so there is still an undertone in her voice that calls Remy a coward.

The kiss, when it comes, doesn't surprise Remy at all.

She's closed her eyes. The first thing she feels is the tickle of Amber's long, loose hair against her cheek, brushing her collarbone. Remy's nipples harden through her bra, her shirt, with that sweet, whispered sensation. A moment later, Remy gasps into the faint touch of Amber's lips; they are so warm.

Amber kisses her chastely, a brush of her mouth over Remy's, again, and then, more slowly, again. Remy's lips are swollen already, sensitive and soft, and her body is so much warmer than the air that the summer around them is suddenly cool and shivery against her skin. When she opens her eyes, Amber is smiling at her like she's won the first round. "Well, come on," she says. "That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

Remy tenses, because Amber's look is smugly challenging, and Remy knows better than to let her get away with anything. "You know it's not," she says, and she moves forward to kiss Amber like she means it. Not harder--no clash of teeth and wills--but deeper, like an honest question answered. _Tell me_, Remy says, _show me_, and Amber gasps in surprise. Remy has wanted, has needed to hear that high, desirous sound, and she finds her hand on Amber's skirt, drawing the fabric into her hands and pushing it upwards.

"This is just a dream," she says, pulling back far enough to see that Amber's smirk has turned wide-eyed, that her mouth is open around her quick breathing.

"That doesn't mean it doesn't mean anything," she says.

"It means I can do this," Remy says.

The park disappears around them. The bedroom that materializes isn't hers, and she can't imagine that it's Amber's. The sheets are a gorgeous cream, and the walls fade away into endless white light. For an instant, Remy's mind flashes to the hospital room, but she shakes the image out of her mind and kisses Amber again, her hand slipping up under her skirt along the inside of her leg, from her knee to the soft, needy warmth between her thighs.

"Oh," Amber says, the pleasured surprise of a woman who has never had another woman touch her, who doesn't know the difference that knowing makes. She's not quite wet enough for Remy to slide a finger inside, so Remy teases her, runs her fingers around Amber's clit in tiny, rhythmic circles, never quite touching her directly. She slips her hand lower when Amber's hips start to move. She stops, starts, provokes, and kisses her the entire time.

Remy can admit that she has wanted to win, that she has wanted to show Amber that she's better at something. At this. But Amber accepts her touch easily, as if there is just as much a victory in giving in to Remy as there would be in driving her to her own, intense, unstoppable orgasm. Remy pushes her hair back and meets Amber's eyes, almost frowning, and Amber laughs softly.

"What are you doing?" Remy asks her.

"Maybe I've learned something," Amber says. "Maybe this is just as good." She reaches behind Remy's neck and pulls her down, kisses her again, and it's not a challenge or a tease. It's simply want, desire, joy. It's a feeling so alive that Remy stops analyzing and moans, rocking her hips against Amber's. She finds the zipper of the sundress with one hand and smiles at the _zzzt_ as she pulls it down.

The v-neck of the dress comes down easily, the straps slipping over Amber's shoulders and catching briefly at her elbows before Remy follows their path with her fingers and pushes the dress off completely. She pulls her own top off, and her pants follow quickly, until she is kneeling over Amber and they are both naked, in the light and the warmth, and this time, Remy laughs too. "Don't tell me you've changed."

Amber looks affronted, and Remy laughs again. "Changed by a man," she repeats, mocking. "How many times have I heard--"

"Shut up," Amber says, and rolls them both over, finally looking like she's in this for herself, for what she wants. It's not that Remy wants her to be selfish in bed; it's only that this is what she fantasized about: Amber's quick, fierce need, dragging Remy into a stall in the women's washroom, both of them muffling their groans, Remy's mouth against Amber's shoulder, Amber's fingers working faster and harder inside her until she explodes.

It's not quite that, because Amber hesitates long enough to tuck a strand of Remy's hair behind her ears, but she still looks like she's concentrating when she kisses Remy's neck. Remy hums and lifts her chin, exposing as much of her throat as she can, and strokes her hands up Amber's sides, finding her breasts, thumbs circling her areolae. Wondering how long it'll take before Amber snaps. Letting Amber kiss her as leisurely as she likes, and not perfectly--it wouldn't be this good if it was perfect.

Remy lifts her thigh between Amber's legs and pushes up. There--_there_\--Amber's hip twisting as she returns the thrust, oh God yes, there, and Remy half-sits up because she needs the pressure. She's aching, she wants Amber's fingers or her tongue inside, but she starts by finding Amber's breasts with her mouth, sucking and kissing and swirling her tongue across her nipple.

"Hey," Amber says, gasps, "that's not--fair--" and then they're both laughing, together. Their hips move in tandem, as if it's not urgent at all, as if they aren't both wet and slippery now and insistently grinding against each other. When Amber lifts her head, her thrusts turning shuddery and sharp, Remy is almost surprised. It's quick, and over soon, but Amber smiles, her eyes closed, and she relaxes.

"You think that's it?" Remy says, incredulous, as Amber rolls to one side and looks at her as if it's her turn and Amber is planning on exactly how to make her squirm. Which she should be, and which is nice, but it isn't the half of what Remy wanted. Before Amber can reach for her, Remy shakes her head and slides down the bed. She takes in Amber's scent and the softness of her stomach against her cheek and lips. Amber lets her legs fall open easily, more than eager, and Remy pushes one finger inside her without so much as a pause. She kisses her, uses her tongue, nothing tentative, nothing at all like hesitation.

Remy enjoys this, the smooth-slick taste, the startled moan that breaks from Amber's lips, the way her hand reaches for Remy's hair and strokes down to her shoulder. This is Amber, undone, and this is how Remy wants her. She's loosed from her moorings, because there is nothing, right now, that Amber _must_ be: not perfect, not winning, not the cut-throat bitch. Not because she isn't, or because she shouldn't be, but because she can't think about anything else right now except Remy's finger rubbing in and up, faster, and her mouth, sucking, lapping up every exquisite second. This time, when Amber comes, her orgasm lasts, and this time, Remy _feels_ it, the whole clenching, quavering length of it.

"That," Amber breathes afterwards, recovering. "That's what you wanted?"

"Yeah," Remy admits. She kisses Amber on the lips, smiles when she doesn't duck away. "Well. Not _only_ that." Her hair falls between them when Remy tries to kiss Amber again, so she lets herself fall back and teaches Amber how she wants to be touched. Amber learns faster than anyone else, mirroring her motions, drawing out everything Remy has wanted to feel. She comes with Amber's fingers inside her and her own palm pressing against against her mons, and she closes her eyes and lets her orgasm pour through her, and fill her, and ebb away.

And, since Amber must always win, Remy lets herself be carried away twice more before they're done.

She holds Amber, then, her chin on Amber's shoulder, both of them staring off into the white not-a-room light. If Amber cries, quietly, one shaky breath and the tears dripping off her nose, then Remy won't tell. There's no one _to_ tell, since it would sound crazy and even if House or Wilson believed her there's no reason to hurt them further. It's one more mystery, one more secret she'll keep to herself.

When Remy wakes up, Amber will have faded away. This bedroom will be only a memory that she sighs over when it's late and she needs the buzz of her vibrator between her legs and one hand on her breast just to make herself stop thinking and sleep. When Remy wakes up, she won't cry over Amber's death. She will remember the life that she had, and she will look at Wilson (who is broken now, and painfully present at the hospital every day, and so lost that Remy understands why House won't meet his eyes). She will wonder about the person she will find a week, a month, a day before the Huntington's symptoms begin to show.

She'll wake up, and look at her test results for the last time, and she'll remember Amber Volakis for who she was; and then Remy Hadley will go on with her life.


End file.
